Saw Fred the other day;
in long trousers and walking on a stick.
It could not be, not our Fred.
“It’s me knees, you know,” he said.
Kept walking, slowly with his stick
would not give up, our Fred.
He used to run along the lake,
in his split shorts – for his long stride.
We all knew him ‒ our Fred
Once in Singapore on a trip
a woman saw him dripping with his sweat.
Aren’t you the runner from Oak Flats?
Yes he was – our Fred.
He would not age,
kept running for a longer life
and now this.
I remember quite well
he was interested in Annabel
whom he met on a running track.
He liked her long legs
and the shape she was in,
made eyes at her and conversation,
was in love with her, our Fred.
Saw him limping past the house
were Annabel lives on her own.
Still interested, our Fred
He finds her in the garden,
stopped for a chat,
points to some roses with his stick.
And Annabel? Smiles at our Fred.
Why don’t you come in, she said.
Share a cuppa and a snack.
That will be nice, said our Fred.